


Necessary Restraint

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her latest recovery is severely trying Emma's professionalism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Restraint

There's only one room available, and the room has only one bed.

Because, of course, why should Emma have expected any different? _Every single part_ of this retrieval has been a colossal pain in her ass; there's no reason the motel should have worked out in her favor, either.

And speaking of colossal pains in the ass, "Sit down," she tells him, pointing to the chair by the window.

"You didn't say the magic word, love," he says brightly, and shrugs, apparently unhampered by having his hands--well, one hand and one arm capped with a brace that's currently empty--bound in front of him.

"Sit down or I will Tase you and step over your twitching body," she grinds out. It does nothing whatsoever to dim the cheeky grin he's been sporting _this entire time_ , but he sketches a bow and sits the hell down.

Not on the chair, though. Of course not. On the bed.

He doesn't stop there (why would he), but lays back, propping his head on his bound arms and resting one booted foot on the other knee. "Go on, then, darling. Tell me _everything_ you want to do to my body." 

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and Emma has to stomp down on the urge to throw her handcuffs at his head.

The worst part isn't that he happens to be unbelievably hot, or even that he _knows_ it. No, it's that he can tell that it's affecting Emma, and he seems to be on a quest to see how far he can push her.

She walks over and kicks his foot down from its perch. "Sit up, slowly."

"Now we're getting somewhere," he murmurs, and lazily straightens up in a move that says really complimentary things about his core muscles. His eyes sweep up her body, then meet her gaze, and it's more unsettling than if he'd just kept checking her out.

Emma tightens her jaw, and curls her fingers in a _give it here_ gesture. "Hand."

"Anywhere you want it," he says, but lucky for him, he raises his arms before she has to punch him in the mouth, because, _god, seriously_.

She unstraps the leather binding his wrists together and steps quickly back, out of reach. He flexes his hand while staring at her, and she's only watching his fingers work to make sure he doesn't try anything.

"Lose the coat," she says, and his smile gets impossibly more obnoxious.

"You only ever had to ask, beautiful," he says, and stands up. He's about to shrug out of it, but she holds up a hand. 

"Wait," she says, and steps back, pointing across the room. "Other side of the bed."

"Don't trust yourself to resist temptation?" he says lightly, but does as she asks, putting the bed between them before dropping the coat to the thin carpet. The thing makes a thud when it lands, and she's not sure whether she's right about there being a lot of crap hidden in those pockets and seams, or if it's just fifty pounds of leather, but either way, she doesn't trust him with it.

"Put it on the bed," she says. He does it, with an exaggerated slowness that's enough to make the urge to hit him rise up again. Maybe he sees that, and that's why he doesn't have a comeback--or maybe he's just too busy watching her, something complicated going on behind those blue, blue eyes.

She grabs the coat--Jesus, there might be printing plates sewn into the lining, as heavy as it is--and dumps it behind her, out of the way, where he can't get at it easily. "Now the vest," she says, and his eyes go suddenly sharp at her tone.

Damn, damn, damn. She swallows to clear her throat, but there is zero doubt in her mind that it's way too late, the damage already done.

He takes his time, working his belt open in a move that speaks of long practice, setting the clasp hooks of the vest free with nimble fingers. He drapes them both over the footboard without being asked, letting his fingertips drag across the grain of the vest as he pulls his hand back. 

She snags them and drops them on top of the coat, ignoring the warmth still clinging to the leather.

"The shirt next, I presume," he says, and the cadence of his words is playful, but the low tone makes her cross her arms over her chest and inhale sharply through her nose. She hadn't necessarily been intending to demand that--the weave is light enough that she can tell he's not hiding anything under it--but she nods anyway. 

He slides his suspenders off, then tugs the shirt free of his pants and pulls it over his head. To get the gathered cuff over his right wrist, he bites down carefully on the fabric and slips his hand free, watching her watch him the whole time.

He's not grinning anymore, but this is worse. Emma digs her nails into the sleeve of her own jacket.

The pendants around his neck draw Emma's eyes right where she's trying not to stare, to the toned chest she's been pretending not to notice, the dark hair that's been tantalizing her, making her fingers itch to touch. He rests the brace on his hip and tucks his thumb into the waistband of his pants, the weight of his hand baring an extra sliver of skin.

"If there's anything more you feel the need to investigate, love, you'll have to do it yourself," he says, his voice rusty, his accent thicker and less refined. She snaps her eyes up, and the want on his face echoes the pull low in her belly.

She steps in close to him, far too close to control him if he tries anything. Without breaking eye contact, she runs the back of her nails down his right arm, all the way down to where his thumb disappears under the leather. "Can I trust you?" she asks, and almost doesn't recognize the breathiness of her own voice.

"Decidedly not," he says, the words whispering over her lips, grinning a wicked grin. He leans closer still, and she smiles back up at him.

"Didn't think so," she says, and twists his wrists together, strapping them tight once again.

He gives her a sigh that seems almost genuine, then closes his eyes and hangs his head, shaking it softly. "Really, love?"

"Really," she says, and shoves him backwards. His eyes pop open as he hits the bed, and before he can react, she stretches his wrists over his head and cuffs his hand to the headboard.

The position does amazing things for his arms and chest, and she bites her lip as she drinks him in. He's really nicely defined--toned, but not too big--and a little tense, which is just as good a look on him as the casual insouciance earlier. His eyes narrow, sizing her up, and she studies him in return.

"What do you intend to do to me?" he finally asks, and it's almost conversational but for the slight edge to it.

She bends close to him, one knee on the bed, bracing her hands on either side of his chest. "Take you up on your offer," she says, and watches his eyes flicker in delight. 

She starts at his elbows, running her palms down over his biceps, feeling them quiver as he tests his bonds. She rubs over his shoulders, traces her nails through his chest hair, kneads her fingertips over the skin just above the waistband of his pants. He shifts impatiently, and she presses her weight against his hip to hold him still.

"What was the plan, exactly?" she asks, and slides her hands lower, so there's leather under her palms and skin warming her fingertips. "Drive me nuts, make me jump you, get the upper hand while I was distracted?"

"It sounds so venal and clever when you put it like that," he says, and has the nerve to shoot her a dirty grin, as if everything's going exactly to plan for him.

She curls her fingers just enough to let her nails prick at his skin. "How's that working out for you?"

"Better than I imagined," he says, and rolls his hips _into_ her hands, drawing in a pleased breath as her nails bite deeper.

She snatches her hands back almost without thinking about it, and he raises his head to look at her. "Not going soft on me now, are you?" he asks, but his voice is soft, and his eyes are asking a different question.

She shakes her head, her mouth curving into its own wicked smile.

"Can't let you have all the fun," she says, and stands up, keeping her eyes on him as she ditches everything but her tank top and underwear. She does the bra trick, dropping it somewhere near the rest of her clothes, and then climbs onto the empty half of the bed, facing him. The fingers of his trapped hand twitch as he stares at her legs, and she rests her knee against his ribs, skin on skin.

"It wasn't actually a terrible plan," she says, and runs her fingers through her hair, brushing it back over her shoulders. "There's just one problem you overlooked."

He cocks his head at her, giving her the once-over with gleaming eyes before meeting hers. "Do tell, love."

"You tried it on the wrong person," she says with a shrug. "See, I've spent a lot of time on my own. And I've gotten pretty good at taking care of myself."

She shifts around until her back is pressed against his flank and lets her eyes drift shut, drawing her fingers down her neck, over the hollow of her throat. She hums softly at the teasing touch, then glances over at him as she runs her finger under the neckline of her tank top.

He's watching her with hooded eyes, fingers curled into a loose fist that's almost casual, if she didn't know better. 

She peels her tank top over her head with a little more arch to her back than is _strictly_ necessary, and tips her head back further to let her hair brush over his stomach. She hears him suck in a quick breath through his nose, and smiles to herself.

She's never been the noisy type--too many years spent trying to be quiet, don't be a bother, don't give them a reason--but she wants to keep him engaged, wants to make sure she has the full attention of her captive audience. 

(Wants to get him back a little for tormenting her.)

So she keeps talking, even as she smoothes her palms down her own body, settling a little further back against him. He's warm--or she is, this close--and it's a nice contrast to the slight chill in the room. "See, sometimes it's too much trouble to go find a one-night stand," she says, and runs her palms over her breasts, rubbing over her nipples with a gentle touch that's still enough to make her breath catch, as keyed up as she is. 

"Sometimes you can't stand to wait," she says, her hands skimming over her ribs, her stomach.

She turns her head to look at him as she traces circles on her upper thighs. "Sometimes you just want it done _right_."

He watches her slip off her panties as avidly as he's been watching her this whole time, and licks his lips again (this time, it seems purely unconscious). She smiles to herself, and slips her fingers between her thighs.

_Oh_ , she needed this more than she realized. She's already slick and wanting, and the delicate pressure of her fingers is almost too much, driving her too close, too soon. She eases off, and only then notices that she's ended up pressed hard against him, his stomach taut under her shoulders. 

He groans, and Emma grips her own thigh to keep control, because the sound is nothing but sex. "You all right?" she asks, and it comes out way more throaty and suggestive than she can ever manage on command.

"Not bad," he says, with a rough edge to it himself. "Could be better."

"Oh?" She rolls her head to look at him.

"Aye," he says, and wets his lower lip with his tongue. "You could let me help you out."

His eyes are full of dark promises, and Emma decides it's time he delivers on those.

She rolls to her knees and swings around to face him. He's trying to play it cool, but she can see the muscles standing out in his shoulders. 

"Such a gentleman," she murmurs. There's a respectable bulge under the laces of his pants, and she rubs the heel of her hand over it. 

He arches into her touch, a wolfish grin on his face. "Always."

She pops the laces and draws him out, already heavy in her hand. She hears the handcuffs rattle against the headboard, and looks up to see him feigning innocence and nonchalance. There's a strain to that grin, though, and it falls away entirely when she wraps her hand firmly around him, stroking him a few times.

His head drops back against the pillow, hair mussed, a flush seeping down his neck and chest. She gives him no chance to recover his composure, just kneels up to swing one leg over him. His eyes go gratifyingly wide, and then she angles her hips just so to slide herself carefully along his cock, the friction a delicious, torturous drag.

(For him, too, judging by the way he presses up against her. But his legs are still trapped in his pants, and he doesn't have a whole lot of leverage to work with.)

She's gliding wetly across him, letting her weight increase the pressure, and moans faintly when she hits the right spot, _god, right there, that's it_.

"You got quiet," she murmurs between breaths, and he huffs out a sound of disbelief.

"A scoundrel I might be, but I'd never interrupt a performance like this," he says, voice low and tight, and she shakes her head at him. 

"Of course you never shut up when I _want_ you to," she says, having to work hard to keep her tone close to even.

He grins at her, sharp and hungry. "As if you ever truly would."

"Never mind, shut up," she says, and ignores it when he snickers at her.

She sets her hands on his chest for balance, and she feels it heave with his breathing and the movement of their hips, feels the pounding of his heart under her palms. Her eyes drift mostly shut as she concentrates on chasing that delicate tension, on letting it build, twisting tighter within her.

She almost misses the dull snap, but then his hand is covering both of hers, anchoring them down, and she lets her eyes meet his. His are shining, a counterpoint to the soft, guilty smile easing across his face.

"Apologies, Swan," he says, and circles one of her wrists. "But I couldn't help myself. You're gorgeous, and I'm greedy."

"Bastard," she groans, and Killian laughs. It rumbles under her fingers.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise," he says. He runs his hand up her thigh and palms her hip, pulling her into him, and he adds enough pressure she can't help panting a little. She's _so_ close. His expression turns serious, and his eyes burn with a light that always makes her catch her breath. "Come for me now, love," he murmurs, heat in his voice. "I'd dearly love to see you."

He tips her over the edge, and catches her when she falls.

She hangs her head as she shudders through the aftershocks, and he cradles her cheek, wiping her hair back out of her face. "Brilliant," he says, smiling, and she breathes out a laugh as she slides off him. He hisses at the movement, still hard, but follows her into the flurry of gentle kisses she seeks as she curls against his side.

She tucks her chin against his shoulder and looks down to where he's stroking himself lightly, slow and measured, and it stirs something in her, even boneless and sated as she is right now. "Okay, I give up," she says, and points her chin at his free, no-longer-bound, hand. "How."

"Pirate," he says, with an odd mix of satisfaction and banked tension. 

She slides a hand down his chest, feeling his skin jump under her touch as she heads south. "I can make you tell me," she breathes across his ear, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck.

"I've no doubt," he says with a groan, and swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his eyelids fluttering. "But you'll understand if I still make you put in the work, darling."

"No rest for the wicked," she mutters, but she's smiling as she wraps her hand around his, and she's sure he can feel it as she kisses him, deep and thorough.

(He does show her how he got out of the cuffs, later, but to be fair, she more than earns it.)


End file.
